it was half past midnight
when you called again—
the kind of night
that hums quietly,
like a secret trying not to wake the world.
i answered without thinking.
i always did.
your voice came soft,
like static wrapped in warmth.
same laugh.
same rhythm.
same pause before you said my name.
for a moment,
it almost felt like we were still us—
the late calls,
the quiet talks,
the kind of comfort
you don't find twice in a lifetime.
then you said it.
so gently,
as if it would hurt less.
"i'm getting married next month."
"february first."
you said the date
like it was nothing,
like she wasn't naming
the day my heart would bury itself alive.
i didn't speak.
not for a while.
just listened
to your breathing on the other end—
steady, familiar,
the sound of every almost-love
that never made it home.
i hope you come,
you said.
i smiled,
even if you couldn't see it.
i'll try.
that's what i told you.
but i won't.
i know i won't.
because watching you promise forever
to someone else
would kill whatever's left of me
that still believes in timing.
after the call ended,
the dial tone lingered—
a flat line,
a quiet funeral for what we could've been.
i stared at my reflection
on the black screen,
and whispered your name once,
just to see if it still hurt.
it did.
it always will